


Just Another Day

by Guanin



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:44:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claude goes spine hunting. You heard me</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Another Day

“Let me ask you something,” Claude asked during one of those rare instances when he allowed Peter a break in his training, although it turned out that the rest was only intended for his body and not his mind, which was still fair game for any toying and teasing that popped into Claude’s sadistically inclined brain.

“By all means.”

“Oi. Don’t you get cheeky on me again. You remember what happened last time.”

Two hours locked inside the greenhouse with strict instructions to break out only by using his powers, and if Claude caught him throwing a rock against the glass or jimmying the lock with a hairpin, the lesson would be repeated in the cramped and smelly maintenance closet. With a solid oak chair to barricade the door.

“Fine. Though I don’t see why I should have to tell you anything about myself if you won’t tell me.”

“Your brother.”

Oh God, not again.

“Tell me. Do you ever stand up to him or do you simply let him use you like the rug he scrapes his boots on?”

It had quickly come to Peter’s understanding that getting angry at anything (and everything) the man said was as futile as chipping at a block of granite with a wooden toothpick and expecting to bore a hole in it. Therefore, he should remain calm, keep focused, perhaps chant a mantra or two in his head to keep himself from lashing out at Claude when the man persisted at stabbing at his by now shattered peace of mind, which always resulted in Peter getting a sound kicking in the ass.

”I’m not a doormat,” Peter said, wondering if Claude could hear his molars grinding together. “We have fights. Plenty of them.”

“And who wins? You? One in ten at the most, if that.”

“How do you know? You’re just throwing words around looking to see which one hits a sore spot.”

“How about that time when he gave that grandiose speech at that campaign party or whatever it was and he informed the whole, gossip obsessed world that the reason you threw yourself off this building like the madman everyone was probably already thinking you were was because you inherited daddy’s suicidal tendencies?”

Peter rounded on him, the shock and humiliation as a hundred faces turned to him in polite surprise returning to him in a flash.

“How do you know about that?”

“I read. It was all over the news the next morning, with a little picture of you cropped under a column spouting forlorn lines about tragic youth and what a shame it was that the Petrelli family had to struggle to save their poor, defenseless, little boy at such a trying time. You could feel the writer’s tears of triumph as you read, truly.”

“Did it mention that I punched him afterwards? Twice?”

“Twice? Really? I’m astonished. I’d be even more astonished if you hadn’t backed down like a kicked pup when that reporter went over to your his house.”

“I wanted to help Nathan. I couldn’t let—“

“The voting public know that the man they might place in the senatorial seat snuck off to Vegas to cheat on his lovely, handicapped wife? I really do feel for her. Married to such a—“

“Shut up.”

“Ooh. Is that how you show Nathan who’s boss? Does he ever actually shut up or does he just swan off, ignoring you?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

“Language. No cursing at the teacher now.”

“God, this isn’t grade school.”

“No, it’s much more crucial than that. Back then, all that would happen if you got a 55 on the math test was a telling off from your dad and no ice cream for a week. Now the whole city might explode like a walnut shell because you were holding on too tight. So it is my business if you can’t manage something as simple as telling your brother to shove off.”

“It’s not like that. He doesn’t—Never mind, I’m not arguing with you just to give you more ammo to use against me.”

“And there you go, backing down yet again. Well, why should I expect any better?”

“I’m not backing down. I’m ignoring you. There’s a difference.”

“No. It’s the same thing. Retreating, running away, hiding with your tail between your legs.”

“Shut up!”

“Here, let me check something.”

And before Peter could ask what the hell Claude was going to check, for it could only be something devised to bring Peter nearer the edge of madness he already wobbled precariously close to when in the man’s company, Claude grabbed his left arm and snuck his hand up the back of Peter’s shirt, prompting him to emit a startled squeak.

“What are you doing?” Peter asked, wiggling as Claude’s fingers meandered on his bare back.

“Investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

He struggled to break free, but Claude kept an iron grip on his arm, leaving him helpless under Claude’s touch, which was not entirely unpleasant now that he thought about it. Claude wasn’t attacking him, exactly, just touching him. Touching his back. With his hand. His very soft, delicately crafted hand teasing out every vertebrae and rib with meticulous fingers. The soft edge of a nail brushing his shoulder blade and suddenly breathing seemed like an impossibly hard task.

“That’s odd.”

It took a few seconds for the phrase to register as words and not simply the melodious sound of Claude’s voice. Wait. What? He shook himself, renewing his fight against the intrusive hand, though he really didn’t mind its presence anymore. Not at all. It could stay for all he cared. He even rather it did.

“What? Just tell me already.”

“I feel a spine. All the vertebrae are there in their proper alignment. Yet all the evidence points to you not having one.”

Peter yanked himself away, pulling his jacket tight around himself as he fled as far away as he could, ignoring his own disappointment that the nice hand had gone away.

“Maybe I should punch you, too.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You’d never land the blow.”

“Oh, you sure? Maybe now you’re the one who’s got his head blown up too big with self confide—“

A scream rose in his throat as a pole flew in his line of vision headed straight for his head. He threw himself back at the last second, gasping as displaced air smacked his face, the pole swishing barely an inch away from his nose. In typical, merciless Claude fashion, the man grinned like Peter was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

“Care to bet?”


End file.
